


let us hand in hand struggle

by SaintOlga



Series: fuck heteronormativity (and let's fuck Alex while we're at it) [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler (background) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Army, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Marriage, References to Depression, Serious Injuries, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7777744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintOlga/pseuds/SaintOlga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were times John regretted their sudden marriage. In the weeks after his father disowned him. In the army, when it got hard. In the hospital. In the long months, years of recovery after that. There was a lot of regrets. He might have yelled about them at Alex at some point, when things were dark. Alex might have yelled back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let us hand in hand struggle

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from [the last letter Hamilton wrote to Laurens](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-03-02-0058). Laurens probably never got to read it. This letter was written today, so I saw it fitting to publish the fix-it sequence on the same day, August 15th.
> 
> This story was originally posted without proofreading. I'm updating it now, after it was proofread by wonderful [sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/) whose services I won in a bid for [Fandom Loves Puerto Rico](https://fandomlovespuertorico.dreamwidth.org/).

They all go to stand in the queue for the marriage license: John and Alex and Laf and Herc and Aaron and Angelica and Eliza and other guys from the queer club, all loud and out and proud, and there is a bit of a scuffle when their turn comes and they have to sort out who is actually getting married here.

They spend the 24-hour waiting period drunk. Not so much on alcohol (even though Lafayette breaks out the French wine they were hogging) as on exhilaration. Alex gets up on the bar counter and gives a speech about how the institution of marriage is outdated, and then promptly invites everyone to their ceremony. By the time they have to go, it looks like a small procession, all young idiots in rainbow glitter.

The ceremony itself takes about 90 seconds. Alex gets giggles. John looks like a deer in headlights but can’t stop smiling.

They kiss on the steps of the courthouse. A camera flash goes off somewhere. There's a lot of them going off all around; nobody cares.

John wakes up the next day to a dozen voicemails on his switched-off phone, all from his father.

  

* * *

 

It's a good thing that they never got the rings for their wedding, because they would be thrown around a lot during the cold, vicious winter that followed that brilliant and painful summer, and with them both being as dramatic as they are, symbolic gestures like that might have been fatal. As it was, there was a lot of yelling and banging doors and leaving in the middle of the night and staying at friends' places.

A lot of coming back, too.

Alex comes home in the morning to pick up some case files for his internship, smelling like Angelica's favorite incense and Eliza's lavender detergent. John is nursing a headache from what can't be a hangover because he didn't sleep, smoking out of the window. In its reflection, he can see Alex frowning, as if they never broke the rules of their non-smoking building before, hanging out of the window together, holding each other up. He looks over his shoulder, ready for another fight.

Alex turns away; starts to sort through files.

The silence gets on John's nerves. He takes another drag. Leans forward, out of the window, over the windowsill, barely holding on to the edge.

Strong hands wrap around his waist. Hot breath burns through the t-shirt he's wearing despite the window being open into the freezing cold of pre-dawn; despite his flesh being covered in goosebumps. He can hear a quiet sob.

If he were a better person he would be in Alex's arms in a second, comforting him, promising him whatever he wants. Terrible person that he is, he only turns around after a few seconds. Reaches for him.

"Hey. Don't,” he says sharply. Alex looks up, eyes dry and red from the lack of sleep, dark circles more pronounced than ever.

"You know,” he says quietly, "I was afraid that I’d come home one day and find you dead."

John winces. He would move away, but there’s no space between the windowsill and Alex's thin, hot body pressing into him, hold so tight that it bites through the thick wool of his sweater. There are shadows in Alex's eyes he doesn't show often, so it's easy to forget that he he’s seen more death in his life than most people do through the entirety of theirs. That his energy, his drive, his passion for life are fueled by the debris left by the hurricane.

"I wouldn't do it,” John says with a shrug. He’s thought about it a lot. Ever since he was a child. Such a good idea, to stop existing. He just never had enough energy—or bravery—to do anything about it.

Alex runs a thumb along his back, where his arms are crossed, holding John tight. He shakes his head.

"I imagined you like Peter,” he says in the calm voice of someone who’s gone through mandatory therapy. "Blood, gore. Go out with a bang."

This probably isn’t something you should say to someone you suspect of being suicidal, but they stopped dancing around their issues about a month ago when John yelled about Alex thinking that if he can do something that everyone can and should, and Alex yelled about John being an entitled rich boy who thinks he's oh-so-oppressed, and things going downhill from there.

"I wouldn't,” John repeats. He's not suicidal. Not really. Alex nods in acknowledgement, but not agreement.

"Now I'm afraid I’ll never see you again—not even your body,” he says. "Only a leaden casket under the flag."

John clenches his teeth. Alex looks straight at him, still holding him, lips pressed tight.

"You're trying to kill yourself!" he’d shouted not two days ago. "You want to die to make your father happy? To prove that God hates fags?"

"I want to serve my country!" John yelled back, fists clenched. "And to earn money for my education! Aren't you the one for education above all?"

"Not above your life, and there are other ways to earn money!"

"Tell it to the millennials on your blog when you cry about the evils of capitalism next time!"

It went downhill from there. Apparently, there are a lot of hills things can go down between them.

Today, John just sighs, anger subsiding for a while at the sight of Alex's bottomless eyes so full of what in another person would be resignation. Only Alex would never resign to anything.

"I'm not going to die,” he says. Alex only huffs bitterly.

"Please don't,” he says without much conviction, and after a second, moves to let go.

John catches his arms before they slip away. Tugs him back. Tucks his head into Alex’s shoulder.

After a few minutes, Alex takes a deep breath against his neck and says into it, "I've enlisted, too."

The yelling starts again.

 

* * *

 

 Losing the ability to differentiate between encroaching pain from bullets playing tic-tac-toe across his body and the encroaching darkness of unconsciousness, John is angry again. Angry because he and Alex got assigned to different bases and JOIN SPOUSE takes forever, so they haven’t seen each other in months, and now they never will. He hates that Alex was right.

He hates to leave Alex alone.

He will wait on the other side.

...Alex is waiting on the other side of the darkness, pale and lost and smiling. Pain is dulled by the meds in John’s system, but they do nothing for the pain in his heart.

“Please don’t cry,” he croaks. Of course, Alex starts crying.

 

* * *

 

 They don't have sex for a year after John is wounded.

There's the recovery, of course, and therapies that sometimes leave him in a worse shape than the wounds themselves did, or so it seems. There's the fact that Alex works long hours in the general's office, and John feels sleepy during the day and then wanders sleeplessly all night, so they operate on totally different schedules. There are all these logical, reasonable factors.

It doesn't explain anything.

It's not that they don't want sex. Alex's libido doesn't go anywhere, and it has always been high. He's the Energizer Bunny in this, as in every other aspect of his life. John's is probably lower, but it was always on par with Alex's demands. But now, he just jerks off from time to time. Everything else feels... superfluous.

Alex takes long showers.

"You can fuck someone else,” John says dryly once, when they’re arguing about something stupid like what to eat for dinner—yet another argument that is really about something other than the subject matter. He says it out of the blue, although he thinks it a lot. Alex probably fucked someone while John was away. They only got into the same base in their second year of service, and only because Alex managed to get himself on Washington's staff and probably pulled some strings in JOIN SPOUSE.

Alex stares at him as if hit in the face. "No,” he says quietly.

"Why not? Isn't it, like, your thing?"

Alex clenches his jaw.

"It's my thing when I want it."

"And you don't?" John sneers. Alex pins him with a stare.

"No." He takes his cup and leaves for the balcony. It's hot outside, but it's the farthest you can get from each other in their tiny military base apartment.

"Why did you say that?" Alex asks later, dressed for sleep. John shrugs. He doesn't know. He says a lot of shit. Thinks a lot of shit. It's stupid. He can't bring himself to care.

Alex sighs and comes over. Hugs him carefully around the waist. Puts his stubbly chin on his shoulder.

"I don't want to fuck anyone who isn't you,” he says firmly. John snorts and shrugs him off. Twists out of his hands.

"And what if I’ll never fuck you?"

Alex looks at him with nonchalance that must be completely faked but looks surprisingly natural.

"Then I'll invest in a fleshlight and a lot of porn."

"Not a dildo?" John asks without thinking, and what does it say about him that this is the first question that pops into his mind? But also, isn’t it good that it isn't something hurtful and shitty like he's prone to say lately? Alex smirks.

"Already have a collection. Wanna see?"

 

* * *

 

 For his last 12-month period, Alex manages to get himself a front-line assignment. It seems that he goes around Washington, somehow. Washington is... displeased, to put it lightly. John is, too. He's finishing his service as an aide de camp—probably could have been discharged, but he applied for a position because it was better to stay at the base with Alex in active service, even with paperwork, than as Alex's plus one. And now, because he decided to serve and not to be the housewife (househusband, Alex always corrects), he can't even follow Alex to his base.

He does meet him when Alex returns from his tour. The little bastard even managed to get himself the first spot in the queue. He jumps out of the plane and John grabs him and lifts him up (he's still light, despite all the muscle he put on; wiry-thin) and kisses him soundly to wolf-whistles and yelling. ("No PDA in the uniforms, guys! Woo-hoo!")

He asks a friend to take a picture. He puts it in his wallet, on top of the one from their wedding.

 

* * *

 

 They’re cuddling on the couch, buried in quilts and blankets and each other. It's the warmest place in the entire apartment. Their first place back in the civilian world, and the heating sucks. At least the couch is wide enough for the two of them—"For your shoulders,” Alex giggled in the store, and pushed John down to "try it on.” Now, he's sprawled on top of John, sometimes darting a hand out of their blanket nest to grab a handful of chips. He eats some himself, feeds the others to John, and John's entire chest is covered in crumbs. Disgusting.

"Did we miss an apocalypse while in the army?" Alex asks after yet another satire piece on the Election from Hell.

"Nah,” John replies, and reaches for a chip dropped on his chest. Absentmindedly, Alex picks it up and feeds it to him. "We’re just in time for the beginning.”

"But that's unfair,” Alex whines. "I don't have time to become one of the horsemen. I don't want to be an innocent bystander."

"You can embody one of the deadly sins,” John suggests. "Pride. Or Avarice. Or..."

"Lust?" Alex grins. He has crumbs on his lips and between his teeth. John rolls his eyes. Not that he looks much better, probably.

"Yes. Lust," he agrees, shaking his head. Alex kisses his on the lips, quick.

Fifteen minutes later, the chips are gone, and Alex is licking the crumbs from John's lips and his own. He gets distracted by another news review, but after that, he digs into the couch pillows and finds the emergency lube they left there because they’ve christened the couch a few times already, and why bother getting up? A few minutes later, he lowers himself onto John’s cock, managing not to disturb most of the blankets, and sighs in contentment.

John locks his hands onto Alex's back; counts the bumps of his spine, kisses him, shares their chip-flavored breath. Alex shakes his head, growing hair falling into his eyes. John brushes it away and suddenly grabs Alex, drags him closer, holds him tight.

"Whu... What?" Alex asks into his chest. John can't answer for a second. Then he slowly lets the man go.

"I kinda love you, idiot,” he says roughly, and rocks his hips to distract Alex from whatever he's thinking.

Alex smiles at him brilliantly. He has crumbs all over his cheek.

 

* * *

 

Ten years down the road, Alex looks at him seriously and asks, "Do you regret it?"

"What?" John looks up from sorting the laundry. Children's clothes go to Alex to sort further by size, adult stuff to a pile next to him… oh hell, they got Eliza's camisole in with the t-shirts again; she's going to kill them.

Alex stops folding and looks at his ring now, turning it around on his finger.

"This. How it happened. How it turned out." He has this tone of voice he gets very rarely, when his inner demons come out. Who knows what brought out this one, though. Alex's mind works in mysterious ways.

"No,” John says without a pause, but not hurried either. There were times he did regret it, though. In the weeks after his father disowned him. In the army, when it got hard. In the hospital. In the long months— _years_ —of recovery after that. There were a lot of regrets. He might have yelled them at Alex at some point, when things were dark. Alex might have yelled back. Or not.

But the truth is, he’s never regretted it: their sudden wedding and everything that followed. He’s cherished it. And now…

He looks around. At the house, the clothes, the toys, the pictures, Alex’s papers strewn around the living room and Eliza’s stacked neatly behind the half-opened door of her office, his scrubs folded on the chair to be worn in the afternoon. Reaches out and grasps Alex’s hand, matching rings still new and shiny—that’s why Alex keeps playing with his; they never bothered to wear anything before. Tugs Alex around into an embrace.

“Don’t be silly,” he says quietly, pressing their foreheads together.


End file.
